


Periphery

by FrozenBrownie



Series: To your heart's desire [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1812, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, General Viktor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Regency Romance, YoI Regency week, historical accuracy as much as possible, mentions of Napoleonic wars, never invade Russia in winter idiots, not much of the latter though, silk trade merchant Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25646470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenBrownie/pseuds/FrozenBrownie
Summary: It is the last evening of the year 1812, and Russian General Viktor Nikiforov just returned from defending his country against Napoleon's Grande Armée. England promises distraction, recovery and healing, but instead, London does nothing but exhaust him further. A glittering ball with a friend at Carlton House, the residency of the new Prince Regent, was supposed to take his mind off the horrors of war, and at first, Viktor is very sceptical. Curious, how a single encounter with an English-Japanese man by the name of Yuuri Katsuki can turn a life around so completely...
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: To your heart's desire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923565
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67





	Periphery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linisen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linisen/gifts).



> Hello internet!  
> I come slamming angst on the table, y'all. This is entirely the fault of Linisen who organized the Regency week on the 18+ Yuri on Ice fandom server months ago, sadly at the time I was not yet fully healed enough to write, and now I am. Seeing as everybody kind of contributed fluff and sweets to the entire project, which is all nice and wonderful, I'm going to even the scales a bit here, hehe.  
> Listen, I know Carlton House did not have a ballroom, but that octagonal room was exactly where I described it to be, it just wasn't this big by a far stretch. I needed a ballroom, and I googled myself stupid before returning to the Wikipedia page of Carlton House. So fuck it, I'm taking this creative libertey, all the rest is as properly researched as I can without consulting the university library. Some social conventions were broken along the way, because reality and the ideal were two very different things, dear people. 
> 
> Alternative titles to this: debunking Jane Austen, stop romanticising the Regency period, 10 reasons why the British Empire sucked major ass and I'm still here for it, Viktor Did Not Anticipate This, or yet another gay historical AU from my feather. 
> 
> Thank you ever so much for the dear Lorelai Walker who beta'd this for me!
> 
> I am [dreaming Brownie](https://dreamingbrownie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come scream about history and LGBT+ issues with me or simply fangirl over one of my numerous fandoms. I'm always open to new people fanning over fictional characters with me.  
> Take care, folks, drink enough, wear your masks over your nose too and stay the fuck at home if you can, please.

London, December 31st, 1812

Whenever all the world was at war, London flourished. This stinking, festering tumour, this ever-growing stain on the green landscape of England turned out to be the exact opposite of Moscow, and its people held about as much love for the Russians as for the French. One admired their courage from afar, and feared their army with as much distance as possible.  
General Viktor Nikiforov already regretted having made the month-long journey, and on ship too! He still felt as if the solid earth beneath his feet were to rise up like the waves to greet him and swallow him whole. Safety, the peace of soul and mind, was nothing one should ever await in London. Like the flies, half of England's high society fluttered into the capital of the modern world that night: silken moths, high-strung mosquitos from the edges of the Empire, sickly meat flies, wasps aplenty. They poured out of carriages as if enchanted: pumpkins opened, a relieved sigh, and out the belched. Under the light of smoking torches they twitched and wavered, gracefully floating towards the open portals of Carlton House. Their whispers filled the chilled night like a threat for more. Every finger pointed none too subtly towards Viktor’s moonlight hair was a reminder: _You do not belong here, stranger_.  
Had it not been for Christophe Giacometti’s steady hand on his arm, Viktor would have turned and fled.  
  
The humming worsened once inside, where the constant movement heated up the air unbearably. In every chimney there was a roaring fire going for the winter-bitten crowds, flanked on each side by a footman in black and red. Like ants, their kind waved through the nearly indistinguishable groups with trays balancing on white gloved hands. In from the cold came figures dressed in every imaginable colour under the sun. Next to the whites, cremes, blues, and yellows of the masses, Viktor felt stiff. Choked by his high black collar atop the dark green waistcoat and shining white trousers in black boots. He was wearing a winter forest, while they were wrapped in their hopes for spring.  
“I am standing out like a sore thumb,” he stated drily to his companion, peacocked-up as usual, who swatted the air.  
“Nonsense! I have seen four different fine soldiers already. Every military man must simply be delighted to have you here tonight, my friend.”  
Most _fine soldiers_ who had looked up to him were now slowly being picked apart by crows in distant Russia.  
“If you love me-“  
“I do!”  
“-You will not introduce a single man in uniform to me while we are here.”  
Lord Christophe Giacomette bowed and snatched two glasses of wine off a tray in one fluent motion.  
“Of those you know enough already, of course. Your wish shall be my command. Now, I heard His Highness has a wonderful surprise tonight…”  
  
One after the other, pairs and families lined up in front of the grand ballroom doors. Carlton House was as much deserving of the title Palace as old Versailles, a glittering lavish jewel surrounded by gardens which masterfully hid the disgusting dirt of London from the Prince Regent’s eye. Awe sang in the sweaty air, and Viktor too caught himself staring at gold and marble. The foyer morphed into a two story top lit entrance hall, carried by tall pillars of polished marble. Every nook and ornament of bygone decades caught the eye of the visitor, so that at first, Viktor thought the black-haired man in a strange dark blue garment with very wide sleeves part of the entire royal dress-up. Then that man turned around. Immediately gasps startled the candle flames in the foyer. His eyes were thin, brown as coffee, and his features soft as the woman’s on his arm with similar features. Why he locked gazes with Viktor of all people, lingering on him for seconds stretched thin, with his hitching breath he may not guess.  
  
“Would one look at that!” marvelled Lord Giacometti, “Seems like you are not the one truly standing out tonight, dear friend. I wonder how a Chinese couple made it to London in time, and how they were received in such polite society.”  
“These are Japanese royals or rich merchants, not Chinese entertainers,” Viktor corrected in a low voice, taking in the clear confusion of the couple. They were quite similarly dressed in lavish designs, with the difference of an impossibly large bow tied on the woman’s back. “I know the eye shape of Chinese people, and I am telling you, they are Japanese. What a rarity around here…” If his interest had been entirely caught by the man of the two, all of London’s finest dull in comparison, no-one needed to know. Lord Giacometti shot him a smug side-glance.  
“So you are to be impressed after all. One day you will have to tell me how you tell a Chinese person apart from a Japanese.” He sipped from his wine which stained his lips bloody. “My, I have a feeling you are indeed full of more surprises than you let on.”  
When a woman in her fifties jostled Viktor by accident in passing, he was torn between gladness for not having to answer and the urge to push her away violently.  
  
A gong made him flinch, and gone were the Asian guests. Viktor suppressed a Russian curse.  
“I will surprise you if I make it to the dance floor even once. Knowing you, on the other hand, you are going to be too engaged working your way through half the local nobilities’ dance cards to notice.” The wine was too sweet for his strong preferences. “Therefore, I shall watch you from the sides and cheer about your every conquest.”  
“It is an enormous aid to possess a charming accent. The ladies enjoy the illusion to speak their tongue better than one does oneself.”  
“You are Austrian,” Viktor stated, just as the grand doors opened to a gigantic coat of arms drawn on the floor with chalk. A unanimous sigh of gentle envy swept through the waiting crows as if all their souls had just ascended to heaven. Viktor snorted. “What a waste of perfectly useful chalk…”  
Like a tidal wave the eager participants of this dance flooded the ballroom: along the edges, around an invisible rock. Down their gazes went, to the combined heraldic symbols of King George III., gone mad, and his reigning son Prince Regent George IV., so that the elaborately painted ceiling went entirely unnoticed. It created the illusion of great height, from which chandeliers hung like jewels. All this fervour with which the amazed people filled the ballroom increased the volume tenfold, not a single corner remained shrouded in shadow. Foot-men stood like statues along the walls, all of it was built in an octagon so that the chalk on the floor truly became the centre of attention.  
  
At the far wall, buried in whispering gentlemen and giggling girls, hidden almost entirely, stood the Japanese couple, quite lost. Viktor blinked against the blinding lights as he made his way to the right towards a large curtained arch together with his excited companion Giacometti. There they came to a halt, a solid pillar in their backs, and waited with baited breath. What for, Viktor was unsure. He felt trapped in the middle of a bee hive, unarmed, which bothered him the most. Already he was sweating, tense as all exits were blocked by social butterflies and guarded too.  
“One gets used to it all,” Lord Giacometti remarked quietly, smiling, as if that soothed every one of Viktor’s concerns.  
“You did, I am sure.”  
“By patience and practise, my friend. Oh, here comes the Prince!”  
The Prince of Wales, to be George IV., wore enough powder to make a French courtesan twenty years ago proud. Wrinkled hands waved to the attendees, elegant as his buckled steps into the chalk. Who the Lady on his arm was, Viktor had no idea, seeing as his wife lived in exile due to her distaste of her princely husband. He acknowledged important guests by a sweeping gaze as the entire hall bowed, so Viktor found himself at the receiving end of a 50 years old intelligent stare, such that he had to restrain himself not to fall to his knees. The Tsar would have expected no less. Then there was music, an orchestra made the air sing with importance and dust of chalk was flung this way and that.  
The ball was opened.  
  
As the opening dance was reserved for the obese prince and his accompanying Lady, the magnificent crowd was left staring. Even in the long row dance which followed only the young women presented for next year joined the Royal couple, and so, Viktor in his boredom searched the periphery for the Japanese guests he so longed for to talk to. He could admit it plainly now: perhaps a lonely soul calls to another, as the heart tends to recognize its own. Quite possibly his wish was nothing more than one foreigner wanting to talk to another in this hostile city. In which case he surely should have locked away this wicked desire, but then, Viktor had not kicked out a large part of the starving Grande Armée by hesitating.  
  
“Dear Giacometti,” he spoke up without looking away from the beauty that was the Japanese man conversing with his companion. Lord Giacometti was almost startled.  
“Etiquette says I require a mutual acquaintance for introductions to just about anyone at all, does it not?”  
“I am afraid so, yes. Luckily enough, you have me!” Viktor ignored his bright smile, stepping aside for a lady in green to circle around her partner.  
“Do you know a good soul who might introduce us to the guests from far-away Japan?”  
He knew the answer before Lord Giacometti finished pondering his options. There were pearls of sweat beading on his blonde hair line, still he looked after every pretty woman as if he would indeed like to whirl each and every eligible lady across the entire hall, and probably their brothers too.  
“Well, the Duke of Wellington whom I had the honour to meet at a dinner party recently is a far-travelled man, perhaps he has some experience in the silk trade. Then there is a Canadian fellow with the name Leroy, I heard he might be present tonight, though I have not seen him yet. And besides, if I may be honest with you, good General, you would not be bothered to make his acquaintance.”  
“In that case,” Viktor replied cheerfully, “hold my wine.”  
  
Before his friend could protest, he pressed his glass into Giacometti’s gloved hand and marched off towards the back of the hall. Later he always could excuse his indecent behaviour to being unfamiliar with British etiquette, besides, judging by the many curtseys and bows he had received so far, his fame covered any slight blunders.  
“General,” they chirped as he passed them, “An honour, mylord,” they murmured, “thank you for your services, Sir.” By the time Viktor locked eyes with the most beautiful man on earth, he was itching to get out of here. Before this god awful year, back in St. Petersburg he had basked in attention when he was entertaining; even the small dinners at his newly bought, spartanic manor were acceptable to him. Viktor could not wait for midnight to finally cut this year off at the knees. To leave everything behind; was this not what he had come here for?  
  
From the centre of attention he manoeuvred himself towards the bewilderment on the Asian couple’s faces. There he bowed stiffly, unsure how deep was appropriate, his heart was racing in his chest.  
“Forgive my impropriety, good Sir, fair Lady, I could not help but notice how alone you were left and wanted to offer my services. Tonight I am here with a close friend who knows such events like the back of his hand. Additionally, I speak the local tongue quite well.”  
He said all this without raising his gaze, and when he finally dared to glimpse at these dark brown eyes, the Japanese man appeared as unimpressed as his lady was confused.  
“So do I,” he said in perfect clarity. There was an embarrassed flush high on his cheeks which suited him quite fetchingly.  
  
Viktor wanted to sink into the floor.  
“O-oh! Oh, my sincere apologies, I merely meant to help, perhaps, as I myself was so very lost too upon my arrival only two weeks ago-“  
“No offense was taken, worry not, please. I can see that you are a Russian military man of status, though I do confess to some gaps in my knowledge about your rank. Might I have your name to remember my would-be hero fondly?”  
He snapped to attention.  
“General Viktor Nikiforov at your service, on leave while our poor ravaged mother Russia is rebuilding herself.”  
“I see,” said the kind Japanese man, as his features softened and he bowed in turn. “Word travelled fast about your feats at Borodino. I should have realised, my sincere condolences. It seems you must forgive me too for my ignorance.”  
“And so we learn from one another,” Viktor nodded. The smile they shared was mirrored by the curiously dressed lady.  
“Might I get your name and that of your lovely companion as well? I so admire your garments, they seem to be of excellent silk, the likes of which I have never seen.”  
“My father called me Yuuri. My mother’s people carry the family name Katsuki first. This is my half-sister Mari,” he answered before firing something off in Japanese. His sister bowed deeply to Viktor while she said some greeting of her own. Somehow the fact that she was not Mr Katsuki’s wife relieved him immensely, even though there was a story somewhere in there.  
  
“Thank you, pleased to make both of your acquaintances. May I tempt you both to a glass of something?” The question was translated quickly, Mari gave somewhat of a sigh and fanned herself on answering, which in turn made Mr Katsuki blush again very acutely.  
“Mari would love a glass of wine, if you are offering to fetch us some. I would go to one of the waiters myself, though I fear we are not to speak unless spoken to.” He lowered his head as if in shame, his hands were demurely clasped in front of him.  
“What a crime to silence such an intelligent and charming a fellow as you are!” Viktor cried with all the outrage he felt at the British and their Empire. Every single display of wealth within this palace was built from colonial trade; hell, the new palace of the Prince in Brighton was being built in Indian and Chinese style combined, as rumour had it. Rage, pity and a surge of sympathy all coursed through Viktor to spike in a heated feeling.  
“But you speak English like one of them. Please, will you have something too?”  
“Ah, I am afraid I am not made for alcohol. Indeed I grew up here, but that is a story for another time.” There was his small smile again that Viktor already adored.  
“Your wish shall be my command,” he promised, bowed deeper than before as his respect had doubled for these brave visitors already within a few minutes, and left in search of a footman.  
  
Precisely why he never attended such balls alone anymore became ardently clear to him by the time he had crossed half the hall stuffed to the brim with attendees. Some men stood at the open doors towards the courtyard, smoking, still the stink permeated the entire ballroom, mixed with the sour smell of wine and the salty tang of sweat one soon succumbed to headaches. The candles burned away the air, which there were hundreds of, made of beeswax at least, not oil. When Viktor happened upon Lord Giacometti again with both his hands full of wine and water, he had to shout to be understood. The Austrian had a rather full-breasted woman on one arm and another curvy lady in muslin on the other.  
“Giacometti! I must introduce you to somebody!”  
And thus it developed that Lady Mari Katsuki danced an entire set of a cotillion with Lord Giacometti as her primary partner. Viktor had never been more glad that these group country dances took well over an hour until everyone was back with their partner. It gave him ample opportunity to converse with Mr Katsuki who turned out to be a reserved, but witty man of two cultures.  
  
“Is your half-sister enjoying London so far?” Viktor asked, leaning against a rosé pillar with the wall no three feet away from his back and all exits within his vision. From the edges, the whole spectacle was quite enjoyable, and from the edges only.  
“I think so, yes. It is very different from Edo, let alone the countryside ruled by samurai still.”  
“That I believe wholeheartedly,” Viktor agreed, sobering. He scarcely even felt the wine. “Nothing compares to London, though I must admit I have never seen so much poverty back to back with unimaginable wealth. Siberia is poor too, but not half as dirty.”  
  
Mr Katsuki cocked his head while watching his sister hop and laugh, standing out like a pink dog in a litter of white poodles, not giving it any power to make her ashamed. Her kimono, as Viktor had learned, was long and very heavy, thus clearly not made for English country dances.  
“I have known London for all my life, yet I still do not feel like I belong here. Perhaps I never will. If I were to ask a lady for a dance, she would be scandalised and her reputation ruined for a year, if she took my offer.” Yuuri Katsuki emptied his cup of water as Viktor watched, speechless. It was not only the long line of a graceful throat that transfixed him. He would, Viktor thought desperately, have whisked this stunning Mr Katsuki away to whirl him across the dance floor until sunrise. But then, was he any better than those morally depraved fancy men at the brothels, having such instincts? Despite his smooth looks, Mr Katsuki was no woman. A soft-spoken, melodic voice and the lack of a beard changed nothing in the fact that he was a strong man who stood proud when challenged and smiled through his sadness. Viktor wished these realities had put him off.  
  
“You deserve better,” he said with quiet conviction, thrilled when he was allowed to look the young man in the eyes. “Russia is better than this, we are half Asian ourselves. St. Petersburg would be more accepting, that I swear from my own experience. If it were not for the snow and the frequent change of Tsars and Tsarinas, it would almost be safe.” Mr Katsuki appeared stricken for a second before he had his feelings under control one more.  
“Forgive me if I am intruding, but you sound homesick.”  
“A tad, perhaps,” Viktor conceded, not terribly eager to venture there, so he smiled and emptied his glass. “Recently I purchased land in Wales, because I wanted to be close to the sea once I retire from the army. After all this dreadful business is over with, of course.” His tone must have dropped a notch or two too far into vengeful bitterness, because Mr Katsuki regarded him curiously. 

  
“While I would gladly accept you into the Empire’s ever-hungry arms without any delay, please deliver old Bonny to the gates of hell if you ever get the chance. His terror is making trade very difficult these days.” It was the deadpan, serious tone that punched a husked laugh out of Viktor, who mimicked a toast with his empty glass.  
“The coward already abandoned his starving, freezing Grande Armée with his tail between his legs not long before I left for England. Worry not, my friend, I have a feeling his reign of terror will not last for much longer.” Had a gong not rung that very second, Mr Katsuki would have undoubtedly noticed how utterly floored Viktor was by his small thoughtful smile.  
  
“Oh, this must be dinner. I, uh, better find my sister.” If there was reluctance in his withdrawal, surely he was too busy bowing to Viktor to notice the way his fingers were twitching to reach out and hold on. “It was a true pleasure talking to you, General Nikiforov. You have a most wonderful way to comfort one with words.” And before he could react, astonished, the beautiful Mr Katsuki slipped away, not quite quick enough to hide the charming blush that covered his entire face.  
  
To say that Viktor was stricken would have been an understatement. He felt like a changed man, humbled, _blooming_ with the urge to protect and cherish. No man blushed and gave compliments to a stranger. Hope of unspeakable things made his chest warm from the inside, there stirred a heart within him that, all his life, had remained dormant. Silent. He had never known it was waiting.  
Forgotten was the itching discomfort of having to slither through a crowd. Everyone strolled towards the throne room where a large banquet had been set up. A mesmerizing array of silver platters, goblets, cutlery and chandeliers in exotic themes reflected the light back at the tapestries thousand-fold. Viktor glimpsed at the silken blue and black kimonos striding towards their assigned seats, seemingly eager to be out of the way, and two black-haired heads of intricate up-dos huddled together in intimate conversation. A concealed gaze travelled the length of the throne room. Viktor felt rooted to the spot. He was unreasonably disappointed to find his seat to be far up the table, away from theirs, which meant politely trying to walk on eggshells among the highest ranking guests instead of low-fluttering heat and gorgeous blushes underneath almond-shaped brown eyes. Then Viktor felt Lord Giacometti on his elbow, who followed his line of sight to give a quiet chuckle.  
“Welcome back to the living, dear General.” He was gently pushed towards his seat, and so began a feast to die for.  
  
Other than many attendees, Viktor did not find it within himself to take heartily from all eight breath-taking, masterfully arranged courses. They were served the Russian way so that the dishes were put in front of different guests on several of the courses instead of everything being presented at a particular spot the French way. Like this, more people could try more exotic dishes. Most were too sweet for Viktor’s hearty tastes, and he took care not to indulge in many glasses of alcohol. Every now and then he would stretch his neck to look to the left where, entirely too far away for conversation, the Katsukis were sitting, smiling at him in between heads and coat tails every so often as well. Especially Mr Katsuki lowered his head hastily whenever Viktor anxiously checked for him to still be there, as if he had been caught. 

The longer Viktor stayed at the heavily laden table, nodding, giving curt, pointed answers, telling about the battle of Borodino _thrice_ as if once wasn’t enough for a lifetime, the more his urge to flee grew into an unbearable instinct. Lord Giacometti, bless the fool, was charming half the upper nobility of London but stopped in his tracks once Viktor got up. He shook his head slightly, made a show of temporary farewell and escaped.  
  
Mr Katsuki met him halfway to the grand staircase.  
“General Nikiforov!” The hurry painted a rose-like hue on his white cheeks and wondrous birds embroidered large on his kimono seemed to fly as he reached for Viktor with both hands extended. “Are you leaving already?”  
“No,” Viktor conceded with a tight-lipped smile, “I simply needed a moment unobserved.” As if on their own volition, their hands clasped; it drew a stuttered exhale from his lungs. Mr Katsuki’s fingers were warm, shorter than his own and dry, his nails clean and tips soft. Their eyes locked, and there went all tension that had made Viktor flee in the first place. The ballroom was empty, the dance floor bereft of bodies, only invitingly vast. Brown eyes shifted over that space.  
“Let me be alone with you,” Mr Katsuki pleaded, a breath, a leap, and Viktor went willingly.  
  
In that one moment they entered the Grand staircase, because the courtyard surely was full of retching eaters, he would have given his soul to never go into battle ever again. Crimson carpet bled into the ground floor, a large arch marked the entry to the ballroom and heavy velvet curtains the same bloody colour of the floor blocked the stairs from view. Candles behind glass on the walls were the only source of illumination.  
They were still holding hands as Viktor breathed a little easier.  
“I must apologize if I seemed to hasten my departure without leaving my address with you. This was never my intention.” His heart was beating away in his breast, though it did not cause him discomfort anymore. The English-Japanese angel in front of him gazed at him with more trust than he deserved, and Viktor felt elated, dirty, sure, off-kilter.  
“No, please, you need not grovel, I know the need to get away once in a while well.” There was self-deprecating shame glinting underneath his long lashes, gone in an instant when gentle pressure of their joined fingers revived his glow.  
  
“I have not always been this way. Yuuri Katsuki, can you believe me an entertainer? A man of ballet and theatre?”  
“Yes,” he breathed without neither pity nor hesitation. “Some men grow icy in war, come back hardened and lacking pieces of their soul. You came out more sombre, perhaps, but alive. In some way near unfathomable to me, you survived a Russian winter out in the field, pristine as snow, twice as beautiful. Inside and out.”  
“My hands are steeped in blood,” Viktor rasped, because anything else would have come out a declaration of love. He was falling, toppling over an edge hard where there was no coming back from, and this brave, brave man refused to let him go.  
“I dare to disagree,” came the response, then his eyes hardened. “Viktor Nikiforov, can you picture me an Earl? Do you see anything else than the bastard son of a rich whaler in me who took me from my mother in Japan to bring me to England as a trophy?”  
“Yes,” growled Viktor, setting kisses onto soft, warm fingers and sheltered them against his heart. “Yes,” he repeated, more calm, done in by the way Mr Katsuki went up on his toes to angle his entire body towards him.  
  
And this was it: His original sin, that felt like heaven opened and shining down on him.  
  
Their lips met in a chaste kiss that grew more desperate all too fast. Viktor folded his fierce beauty into his arms to caress him, to kiss and lose all sense of time to a rush of euphoria which he had never known before. Between bites and nips and push and pull, a Russian endearment slipped from his tongue to fall, feather-like, upon Mr Katsuki’s heart.  
“What does that mean?”  
“Sunshine,” Viktor murmured, eyes closed in bliss as he felt a soft touch of lips on his cheek. Fervently he wished for a lifetime to lose himself in these eyes, once shy, twice coy, always honest.  
“Family names mean so little if one does not know the family tied to them. Please,” he breathed, a reddened question wrapped in a plea, “call me Yuuri. I think little of keeping my distance to such wonderful a man.”  
“Yuuri,” Viktor marvelled, stunned so much that he could not endure to stare at an averted gaze, lovely as these eye lashes were. “Yuuri,” like he was tasting the name, reverent: “Look at me, dear Yuuri, please.” Two fingers underneath his chin met no stubble, but a pair of glittering eyes with hope in them. “Thank you. I truly am honoured. For you I will always be Viktor, then. Not even Lord Giacometti calls me by my given name.”  
At that, Yuuri glanced towards the heavy curtains.  
“I left Mari in his care, thinking I would not be long…”  
“Then she is in the best of hands. Though much as it pains me, I cannot keep you if you want to return to her.” Viktor all but melted into another kiss that weakened his knees. If he was entirely honest with himself, he wanted to stay right here forever, in this twilight stair case of red light illuminating Yuuri’s graceful features. They were cocooned in plush silence, all the world far away, as if only they were real and the New Year’s ball a dream.  
  
Yuuri crunched up his face, a hasty hand wiped away a shining wetness from his eyes which Viktor kissed reverently, worshipping and soothing all at once.  
“I don’t,” Yuuri whispered, looking utterly devastated. “She is going to leave as soon as the winds turn favourable for Japan, half the globe away. What kind of man does that make me? Who wishes not to spend every precious hour with one’s own long-lost half-sister?” For all his gentle shushing and their calming embrace, Viktor felt Yuuri’s pain as though it was his own. There was more to Yuuri and Mari than the simplicity of siblings who had grown up with each other. Judged by the tiny puzzle pieces he had been given, they must almost be strangers to one another, separated by a stark difference of culture and language.  
“It does rather feel like we merely found us again after a previous life spent in the happiness of marriage. You reached for me, and I was pulled towards you by an invisible thread wrapped around my heart and soul from the very moment I laid eyes on you.” Yuuri gave a high keen, a sound of joy and pain and wonder, followed by a searing kiss. “Do not feel bad for wanting to treasure this moment a little longer, sweet Yuuri,” Viktor hushed, because he, too, was trying not to question his own worthiness of his rank if all he wanted was to simultaneously talk through the night with this fascinating man and ravish him against the tapestry, complete darkness only held at bay by candle light. But there was no way around temporary farewell, and so he made a decision.  
“Here is my address while I am with Giacometti in London,” he offered, slipping a small card into Yuuri’s fingers, “and this is the manor in Wales I bought with a good deal of land attached to it.” Yuuri tucked both away like they were beyond precious to him.  
“Thank you,” he breathed and retaliated by handing Viktor a small beat-up silken scrap with an address embroidered on it in the brightest, most joyful yellow yarn. He traced it with a thumb, swelling with fondness. Yuuri’s eyes were burning. “I stitch when I am nervous. Father hated it.”  
“One more reason to keep it up. There is no shame in doing what pleases you.”  
  
Outside their little bubble the orchestra picked back up, a lively, swinging melody that made them both jump. That private smile wobbled on Yuuri’s lips, so Viktor tucked the silken piece safely into his inner breast pocket where it could not fall out, come hell or high water. This he would carry into battle.  
“My love, may I show you a new dance which has made its way from the German lands to Russia? It will scandalise the vast British Empire by next year, I am sure, and you will be one of the most graceful ones to indulge in it.” Half mirth, half melancholy, he laid his right hand on Yuuri’s waist and grasped Yuuri’s right hand with his left, to then straighten to his full height. Yuuri gasped and hick-upped in delight.  
“To embrace while dancing? What do I do with my left?”  
“Put it on my upper arm where it swells,” Viktor instructed with a wink. “We call it the waltz, from the German _Walzer_ . It is all the rage these days in Moscow.”  
  
Slowly first he led Yuuri around the platform in between the staircases, one up, one down, fascinated at the way Yuuri caught on to the simple box-like step turning and turning in circles. Soon they were dancing in time with the music, a ¾ tact of a challenging speed which had Yuuri tossing his head back with laughter.  
“Lean into my arm a little, I have you safely,” Viktor suggested and his heart stumbled when his partner did just that. “I will never let you fall.”  
Dizzy from the swirls they danced across the narrow space he thought he might faint from happiness. He felt like he was flying, sure in the steps he had performed a few times at court in St. Petersburg, yet his heart weighed heavy.  
  
The piece that the orchestra was playing as if from far away came to an ending, so Yuuri rested his head against Viktor’s shoulder. Proud, upright dancing position became a true embrace.  
“I love dancing with all my heart. Thank you, Viktor. You lead well.”  
“Only with a partner this light on his feet,” he replied warmly, even though he could have written sonnets about the way Yuuri moved so elegantly, born to dance, to dazzle mere mortals. There was his modest blush again, and he took that one step back necessary to separate them. It hurt like glass cracking.  
  
“I will write to you once this scandalous dance has reached London. Surely you will find great amusement in the outrage which must undoubtedly follow in polite society. My only hope…” And he faltered, lowering his head, wringing his hands, “I hope you will think of me. Of us, dancing in the dark, until we meet again. We will, have I any say in it.” He looked Viktor in the eyes then, teary, but oh, so proud. Even Viktor’s loving touch to his high cheekbones did not make him cry, though it was a close thing.  
“And I,” he rasped, feeling like he was about to rip out his own heart by allowing this split. “When I go back home to the strategy table at court; once I am out in the open again, surrounded by horses, men and gunpowder, I will long for you. Miraculously, tonight you gave me peace. That I am going to cherish for the rest of my life, whatever may happen to me.”  
“Good,” Yuuri said fiercely, “Hold onto me, and do not dare to never return to me. Do you hear me? Be cautious, be brave, and know that by sacrificing your own life, not only would you throw my heart into the fire too, but nobody in all of Europe is even a step closer to defeating Bonaparte’s war-mongering if one of Russia’s best Generals dies. So come back to me,” and now the tears fell, “Come back to me, Viktor. I promise to visit you in Wales if you do.”  
“I cannot promise my survival in war, my love,” Viktor shook his head softly, a great sadness, fear and longing so deep it tore at his very soul and made his hands shake. It choked him, let him want to weep, still he folded Yuuri back into his arms and allowed their hearts to beat as one for a last time. “But I vow to return to you, should I be allowed it by divine right, or what else drives our lives. If there is any kindness in this world left, we shall meet again.”  
“Write to me,” Yuuri demanded, wiping away his tears. Already he sounded more steady. Viktor could only marvel at his strength, as he, himself, seemed more agonised at the prospect of going into war once more than Yuuri. Terrified, even, deeply horrified over the imagined smell of death and smoke over open plains.  
“I will, as often as I can. Reading about your opinions and your daily life will keep me sane.”  
  
Their invisible bond stretched, then, as Yuuri retreated from his arms. Just out of reach, he nodded, dry-eyes once more. His stance was correctly upright until he bowed deep in one fluent movement.  
“This is my duty, then: to be your reason to return from war. Maybe we will all be more free once you do. I am going to search for my sister now, fetch her for the fireworks and be sad no more. Will you be there?”  
Viktor deflated, almost ashamed. Once upon a time he had loved fireworks.  
“I fear not, no. Farewell, my Yuuri, and until next time. A happy new year to you both.”  
“To you too, Viktor. Goodbye, you brave man.” He had to watch Yuuri go, unable to hold him back, and took his own sweet time to leave too.  
  
He weaved through people gathering, huddled together in shawls and coats, already staring into the grey winter sky over London. The stars were seldom seen above the capital of the modern world, and Viktor yearned for open land. Half blind, uncoordinated like a drunken fool, he somehow managed to find Lord Giacometti, tap him on the shoulder and say his goodbyes for now before midnight.  
By the time the tower of London rang twelve, he was in a carriage, secure behind navy blue curtains, free to shut his eyes so that he could ride out the tremors hidden away from anybody else. Protected against the exploding celebration, he did not allow himself to cry, as this would have meant to give in: to fear, to concession, to admission that his chances to survive the year of 1813 were pretty damn slim.  
Two taps against the front wall of the carriage told the driver to stutteringly draw the prattling wooden box across cobblestone, away from Yuuri Katsuki – to return, one day.  
One day, Viktor vowed to himself, sending a bellowing prayer towards the heavens. He had to see Yuuri again, wanted to stay, to be able to say so too: _I will stay, my sweet, I am right here, and never leaving you ever again._


End file.
